


Pet

by EvilShtriga



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Cage, HYDRA Trash Party, Humiliation, Implied animal abuse, M/M, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-08
Updated: 2017-06-08
Packaged: 2018-11-11 09:27:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11145606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EvilShtriga/pseuds/EvilShtriga
Summary: The asset crawls into his cage.





	Pet

Once finally alone, he crawls into his cage, every inch a fight to move forward, to make the stiff hurting body bend and crawl, crawl, crawl. Crawl the length of the cell, this unfathomable distance between his fear and his safety, between his pain and his peace, between the barely-life and an almost-death. Between his humiliation and _himself_.

The shade of the bars over his body is the only comfort he has, it’s almost like a soothing touch, only without the pain touch always entails.

He presses his body into the corner of the cage and lets it shake a little as exhaustion of the last few hours catches up, slowly draining him, leaving the shell of him weak and lifeless, while setting his senses on fire at the same time.

His head is spinning, mind clouded but somehow clearer than ever, like he’s just made a discovery, stumbled upon a realization, but still can’t put his finger on the gist of things, like it’s in sight but beyond his reach, on the tip of his tongue and yet not even in his mind.

He’s not sure how one thing can be too real and yet completely unreal at once. Because the dog… the dog… couldn’t be true, right? The come he’s full of is Rumlow’s, the teethmark was left by Rollins, the piss covering his thighs is his own, so how does he remember a dog that wasn’t there so clearly?

He frowns, trying to focus, but some part of him is missing and refuses to reconnect with the rest. He feels tired and shallow, and he can’t stand his own helplessness. He grits his teeth, takes a deep breath and bites down on his flesh forearm, desperate to somehow find a way to become whole again, to find the missing pieces scattered somewhere around this cell, drowned in sticky sperm or covered with poison spit.

He knows he’s drawn blood even before he tastes it, he just feels the moment his skin gives way, breaking under the pressure of his teeth like he’s broken so many times under Alexander Pierce’s unforgiving stare.

He shuts his eyes in an attempt to block the thought of that man, but in vain. There’s no way to escape Pierce, not even in one’s own mind, because even that belongs to that man.

He wants to cry, to weep like he’s never wept before, but no tears come when he calls them. Maybe he spent them all already; well, no more pretending they could bring him any solace. He rests his head on the cold floor, wishing time could follow suit and disappear forever from his life, wishing he could be left alone where he is and never asked anything again, never called, never hurt, never even touched.

It takes some time to register he state his body is in. The bruises and the blood are an almost welcome anchor to reality, the come dripping from his hole a familiar sensation, swollen parched lips a barely noticeable discomfort. The muzzle with floppy ears is new, but he doesn’t remove it, not really sure if it’s a result of fear of punishment or some kind of dissociated carelessness.

The dark silence surrounding him is so different from the blinding chaos that reigned throughout the evening he can hardly believe they might both be equally real.

He’s tired. Sure, he’s many things apart from that –  sad, lonely, afraid, helpless – but above all, he’s tired.

The cage is a good place to be tired in. Almost like it’s capable of understanding, its loose embrace as much of a comfort as he can hope for, even if it’s only imaginary. The one place he’s always been safely alone in; the only time he’s ever been touched while caged was when Pierce scratched his head, and he was surprised there was no pain at the time. Pierce only started to evoke pain later, and had a fair share in making his skin hypersensitive and yet virtually immune to pain at once.

Hesitantly, he puts a hand on his own head, covering his temple and focuses on it. It’s nice. A little foreign. A little sickening. He can’t bring himself to remove the hand, even though he wants to, it’s like something clicked into place and he’s finally falling, leaving his body behind, miles and miles away, in a different dimension, in a different life.

He opens his eyes and immediately, automatically locks them on the bars above his head. The shiny metal lines sharp against the white ceiling, reflecting dim light seeping into the room from outside. There’s a hand covering his head, one finger rubbing slow gentle circles into his temple, a repetitive motion he’d call lazy if he didn’t know better.

He glances sideways at the man beside him, all at ease, an air of relaxed confidence about him, blond hair neatly combed back, blue eyes radiating undisturbed safety like a beacon light for him to follow.

He closes his eyes and feels the tension in his muscles easing out with every second. The hand keeps petting him and he can’t help but tip his head and lean into it. After all, no one else has ever touched him like this.


End file.
